


Traditions

by vehlr



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Kilts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-16
Updated: 2015-08-16
Packaged: 2018-04-15 01:04:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4587120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vehlr/pseuds/vehlr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Varric was a Marcher to the core, despite coming from stone. So he had become the first of Clan Tethras, reds and golds draped over his shoulders, a celebration of the city that had become as skin and bone to him. There were still some dedicated weavers keeping the old traditions alive, and he paid them well to produce a tartan that felt like family.</p>
<p>(Hawke refused to believe him when he pointed out he was entitled to wear a kilt. She still refused to believe him until he showed up at her wedding in full traditional garb and Sebastian had met him, Marcher to Marcher. She is still not entirely sure it was not some huge practical joke.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Traditions

The Marches – city states based on ancient clans. Bloodlines that were woven into the very soil, an identity that was so much _more_ than just a place to come from. Few could argue that their lineage was not of great stock – it might not be the stuff of legends, some would say, but it was loyal and hearty, steadfast and true.

Varric was a Marcher to the core, despite coming from stone. So he had become the first of Clan Tethras, reds and golds draped over his shoulders, a celebration of the city that had become as skin and bone to him. There were still some dedicated weavers keeping the old traditions alive, and he paid them well to produce a tartan that felt like family.

(Hawke refused to believe him when he pointed out he was entitled to wear a kilt. She _still_ refused to believe him until he showed up at her wedding in full traditional garb and Sebastian had met him, Marcher to Marcher. She is still not entirely sure it was not some huge practical joke.)

He read up on the old traditions, invented a few of his own, and kept the fire alive in his heart. He was a Marcher, no matter what ground lay beneath his feet.

*

The last stretch of road leading up to Skyhold is always the longest, Varric thinks as he rolls his shoulders – those last few moments before the activity of the keep, before a hot bath and food that had not been dried out in the sun, before the warm embrace of the Seeker. That thought makes him smile.

He thinks back to her last letter. She had run out of books to read and wanted to know if she could borrow something off his shelves. He had nothing to hide from her, not anymore, and had offered her the comforts of his room gladly – perhaps she would be there waiting for him, lounging on his bed, legs exposed by the warmth of the fire… he shifts in the saddle slightly.

“It’s a little late for a meeting,” sighs the Inquisitor. “Reconvene tomorrow morning to debrief the council, alright?”

Sweeter words Varric has not heard yet today – and the rest of the party looked just as pleased as they dismount and disperse. He risks a glance over at the forge – the room above was dark, and he smiles. She would be waiting for him, in his bed. 

Maker, he was a lucky bastard.

All but vaulting up the stairs, he slows as he approaches his quarters, pushing the door open quietly.

“Seeker?”

“Oh!” She turns, a soft blush in her cheeks – 

_Andraste’s breath.  
_

She stands in front of the mirror, clothed only in the soft tartan of his homeland, the fabric wrapped tightly around her waist and pinned shut before trailing over her chest and draping over her shoulder. The tantalising glimpses of exposed skin are radiant next to the reds and golds and black, and her eyes seem to glow in the firelight as she meets his gaze.

The pack on his shoulder slides to the floor, his heart beating deafeningly loud. He swallows, mouth dry.

He might have assumed, once, that having been caught she would have stammered an excuse and beaten a hasty retreat. But he knows her better now, knows what she would and would not apologise for, and the slight quirk of her lips tells him this was wholly intentional.

“ _Hng._ ” He had meant to say something, he is sure of it, but she has stolen his breath away and he finds himself quite incapable of rational language.

She laughs, a soft sound in the quiet, and beckons him in the room proper with open arms. “I missed you.”

He sweeps her up in a tight embrace, spinning her around as she shrieks before carrying her to his bed and laying her down with care. “I spent the better part of three weeks listening to Blackwall – Rainier – whatever he’s calling himself today – listening to him snore and sniffle. Trust me, Seeker, I missed _you_ a lot more.”

Her hands come up to frame his face, a light kiss to his forehead that lingers. “You presume much,” she teases, “but tonight I suppose I can let it pass.” She smiles down at him. “Come. Lie with me?”

He tugs off his coat and boots, sliding next to her. His hand trips up her waist, fingers thrilling to feel the smooth skin against the fabric. “I have so many questions,” he murmurs, “but I find myself utterly enchanted by all of this.”

She laughs. “You approve?”

And here he hesitates – because yes, _Maker_ , he approves! His lover wearing nothing but his colours, _his_ tartan, smile wide and tender touch and it’s a Marcher’s wet dream – but there is a very old tradition being observed here, one that he never assumed, never _dreamed_ would ever be mentioned, never mind _done_ , and he has no idea if she understands the significance, the weight of what she is presenting to him -

But he smiles, because regardless it is a sweet gesture. “Seeker, what do you know about Marchers?”

She chuckles. “I know as much as anyone, I suppose. Nevarra was once a city state, after all. Our heritage is heavy on the pomp and circumstance, but we never forgot our roots.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Is there a Pentaghast tartan?”

“Oh, almost certainly. But nobody would dream of using it.”

He considers this for a moment, before returning to the matter at hand. “Well, you obviously know about our colours,” he points out. “They’re passed down through families, along with traditions. For example, the Vael clan have a tradition that involves passing through the entrance of the family home when they come of age. There’s a whole ceremony and everything.”

She chuckles. “Did you find this out from Sebastian?”

“I did, and he said it was one of the happiest days of his life, which says a _lot_ about Starkhaven.” He grins as she laughs again, his hand trailing down her arm to rest around her palm. “There’s other traditions, too. More general ones. And… and you can’t really be held responsible for not knowing this one, but you’re actually doing one right now.”

“Oh?” She quirks an eyebrow up, a wry smile.

He nods. “Quite a serious one, really. But I’m not gonna hold it against you.”

“Well, I would _hate_ to have offended you,” she murmurs, leaning in to kiss his cheek. “Let me just check.” And she leans over to grab the book on the bedside table – _A Collection of Marcher Clan Traditions and Heraldry, by K. Cadash & V. Tethras_.

He swallows. “What –“

“I found this on your bookshelf. Quite a surprise, I must admit, but I have always loved history – ah!” She points to the page with an exaggerated flourish. “Here it is.”

His heart skips. She knew.

“An oft-forgotten but still legal tradition,” she recites smoothly, “is also considered one of the more romantic ones. To wear another clan’s tartan and formally request a union is, in many city states, still accepted as a proposal of marriage.”

His chest aches, his breath tight. Maker, she _knew._

She closes the book with a snap, and for a moment there is a flash of nervousness in her features as her fingers curl around the edges of the cover. “I know we are not in the Marches, but… this is part of you, part of who you are. And I wanted it to be right.”

He sits up, stunned to silence as she smooths out the skirt over her knees before taking his hands in hers, her smile gentle and warm.

“Varric Tethras of Kirkwall State, would you allow me the honour of joining your clan as wife?”

And he can barely hear her words for the hammering heart in his chest. She had learned all this for him – to honour him, to prove she knew he was more than just an author, an archer, a brigand without equal. She had formally and legally requested to be part of him, and his heart sings.

He reaches to cup her face, the smile on his lips threatening to split his face in two. “I’d be hard-pressed to say no,” he laughs, pulling her down to rest their foreheads together. It is hardly a traditional acceptance, he thinks, but fuck it – call it writer’s nuance.

Her eyes light up, smile bright as she shuffles closer to him. “You mean it? Truly?”

“Of course I –“

She cuts him off with a passionate kiss, arms wrapping around his neck as she pushes him down against the bed, breaking away only to laugh as his arms wrap around her waist. “I thought you might not – I mean, it was presumptuous of me, and finding your tartan, and –“

He shushes her softly, head pressed against her cheek. “It would be my honour to take you as my wife,” he whispers. “My honour entirely.”

“Welcome home,” she breathes, and she is wrapped in his colours and tucked into his heart and he has never known such a feeling in his life. It did not matter how far away he was from Kirkwall soil, not anymore. Here, with this woman who would claim the name of Tethras as her own – _here_ , he is home.


End file.
